


A Transatlantic Crossing

by GraysonCole



Category: Houdini & Doyle (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 00:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7991488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraysonCole/pseuds/GraysonCole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on the aftermath of The Pall of LaPier</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Transatlantic Crossing

 

                “Houdini.”

                Doyle’s voice startled him and he looked up to see the man himself staring at him, a look of concern on his face. “I’m fine,” he said.

                “For a magician, you make a terrible liar,” Doyle remarked, moving to sit next to him.

                Houdini jerked his gaze to the left; his mother was no longer there.

                Doyle sat down resting his hands on his cane. “What are you doing out here? Is your motion sickness under control?”

                Houdini nodded. His dead mother haunting him certainly took his mind off such mundanity as sea sickness.

                “What’s wrong?” Doyle persisted, not failing to notice the paper crumpled in Harry’s hand.

                “Nothing.”

                “Then why are you clutching that paper? What did you see?”

                “Nothing,” Harry said more forcibly, stuffing the paper into a pocket. “And I wasn’t clutching it, I was just… holding it.”

                “And why are you just holding it?” Doyle tried to keep his voice even; this was like talking to a recalcitrant child.

                “What are you doing out here anyway?” Harry countered, “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

                “Stop prevaricating and just tell me.”

                Doyle was not going to let this go. “I saw my Mother,” Harry said quietly, “Sitting right where you are, staring at me, smiling at me. It creeped me out. And the fact that it creeped me out upset me and the fact that it upset me upset me even more. The fact that I could read this,” Harry retrieved the paper and tossed it at Doyle, “and still see her upset me the most. I am sitting here going crazy. Happy now?” Harry’s voice had sharpened but not risen.

                “You are not crazy, Erich.”

                The use of his real name drew his attention to Doyle’s face. He saw nothing but concern. Doyle was not humoring him.

                “Did you write this message yourself?” Arthur asked, fairly sure of the answer.

                “Of course.”

                “Well, perhaps you could read it because somehow, while you were asleep, you knew you had written it.”

                Harry considered that. “But it worked before. All I saw were squiggles. Tonight it was clear.”

                “How many times have you used it?”

                “Twice.”

                “The point,” Arthur reasoned, “is that you know what it says; you wrote it yourself. Maybe this time your brain simply decided to tell you what it said.”

                Harry thought this over and said nothing.

                Doyle continued, “I’ll write something for you. That way you won’t know what it says and if your theory holds true you’ll have a better grasp of what’s happening.”

                Harry conceded to himself that it was a good idea. Or at least a reasonable one. “And if I can read it?”

          “One step at a time. I assume you didn’t just jump into that water tank head first and hope you’d get out.”

                Houdini glared at him.

Doyle touched his shoulder. “Let’s go to our rooms. The last thing either one of us needs is a cold.”

                “I don’t get sick,” Harry said, rising. “Besides, you’re the one who’s been shot.”

               Arthur refused to be baited by the blatant lie. “The bullet went through me,” he replied, falling into step with Houdini. “I was lucky, all things considered.”

                “Lucky?” Harry glanced at Doyle. “How can a bullet going through you be lucky?”

                “It’s certainly preferable to having a surgeon have to go in there and look for it. That doesn’t always end well. In my case, all they had to do was stop the bleeding, make sure the wound was clean, and sew it up. Infinitely preferable to slicing in and digging it out.” Arthur watched, amused as Harry flinched at the description. “I’m fine,” Arthur assured him. “I’m recovering nicely with no complications. I’ll recover even better knowing that you’re not catching pneumonia on the deck.”

                “Staring at my dead mother,” Harry muttered.

                “Did she speak to you?” Arthur thought to ask.

Houdini hesitated. He briefly considered lying but he hadn’t been doing such a good job of that tonight. “Something about always being with me.” He admitted. Before Doyle could respond Harry continued, “I’m not going to argue about ghosts. I don’t believe in them. I can’t. I won’t. I need this conversation to be over with. I’m tired of dwelling on my descent into madness.” Harry’s voice grew sharper.

                “You are not going crazy,” Doyle asserted, choosing to ignore Harry’s tone.

                “It feels like it.”

                “As someone with personal experience at watching a person go mad, I can assure you that you are not doing it.”

                Harry sighed ruefully and fell into step with Doyle.

                                                                                                                  *****

                Harry stayed uncharacteristically quiet on the way back to his stateroom. His empty stateroom. At least he fervently hoped it was empty.  He felt depressed and angry that he wanted it to be empty. He’d always travelled with his mother, looked forward to seeing her and now everything was upside down.

                The trip to the States had been easier; there had been a purpose. But that was over and he was supposed to get back to his life but there were no upcoming performances for three weeks. As much as he wanted to work, to do something, it would have been unseemly to start entertaining after burying his mother.

                The image of her sitting on the deck chair popped into his mind and he hoped to God that she wasn’t in the stateroom because that would make it real. This was reality. Doyle next to him was real. Doyle, for all his willingness to believe in the supernatural was a very solid, staid presence. The doctor was a practical, logical thinker. He had to be or Sherlock Holmes would be a joke.

                “Are you going to be alight?” Arthur asked into the silence.

                “Yes, of course,” Harry answered automatically.

                “You could try telling the truth sometimes, you know.” Arthur said without heat, pausing at his door.

                “I thought you were all about the stiff upper lip thing,” Harry countered.

                “I am but I’d like to think that we have become friends and as your friend, you don’t have to lie to me, Erich.”

                It was the second time that Doyle had used his real name and it was just as affecting. “It’s going to take me a while to be alright. I’m not certain that I ever will be again.” His honesty surprised both of them.

                “You’ll heal,” Doyle said quietly, “There will be a scar but you’ll heal.”

                Harry nodded, unable to speak in the face of Doyle’s kindness and entered his suite.

                                                                                                                             *****

                Harry sat on his bed staring at his now useless note. He thought of knocking on Doyle’s door but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He looked around for the newspaper he’d been reading earlier and found it discarded on the dresser. He grabbed it, opening it to a random page and tore a piece of it off. He folded it a few times and put it in the breast pocket of his pajamas. It would have to do.

                A knock on his door was accompanied by Doyle’s voice saying, “Houdini.”

                Harry opened the door and smiled. “I honestly can’t believe you wear those things,” he said, shaking his head at the longjohns under Arthur’s robe.

                “Yes, so you’ve told me,” Doyle replied, “Here, I almost forgot,” he continued, handing Harry a slip of paper. “Do not read it,” he admonished and then noticed the newsprint sticking out of Harry’s pocket. “That’s a good idea.”

                “Thank you,” Harry said sarcastically, “I do have them on occasion.”

                “And on that cheerful note, I’ll bid you goodnight. And Erich,” Doyle would never fail to get his attention by using his real name, “Should you have an experience do not hesitate to wake me.”

                “Thank you. No offense, but I really hope that won’t be necessary.”

                Arthur gave him a brief smile and went back across the hall.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written a thing in over 25 years but this show inspired me. I'm hoping there will be more; I have an idea but I'm a slow writer and just wanted to put this out there. Thanks for reading.


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